


Time In A Bottle

by distantstarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Feels, Best Friends, Child John, Devotion, Johnlock - Freeform, Let's Write Sherlock - Challenge 15, M/M, Mysterious Drinks, POV Sherlock Holmes, Suspension of Disbelief Required, True Love, Unexplained Events, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2240541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock go back to their flat after a case and something completely unexpected happens right after they arrive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ravenwolf36](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenwolf36/gifts).



> I had an idea that twisted and churned, morphed and changed itself even as I wrote it. Please comment as often as you feel is necessary.
> 
> I'd like to gift this to Ravenwolf36 as a birthday token, and as a not so subtle thanks for all the help so willingly given for all my recent works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Alice In Wonderland. Read it. It's a trip.

They’d only been home for a few minutes when Sherlock heard John’s shout of dismay. Racing back from his bedroom Sherlock stopped cold in his tracks and just stared at what was in front of him. It was undeniably John. The miniaturized jumper wasn’t the biggest clue that Sherlock Holmes saw, in fact, Sherlock felt he was seeing almost too much, _“John, no!_ ”

A small child sat on the carpet of 221 B Baker Street’s living room, his unruly sandy-blond hair still neatly cut with heavy military overtones, and those blue eyes were as gentle as they ever were. Those same eyes were wide with horrified shock and he seemed to be looking himself over before turning them toward the detective. They were also filling with tears and the tiny boy was clearly struggling to not let that happen. His tiny mouth opened and Sherlock felt his heart sink to his feet when he heard the child sob, “Sherlock!” Tiny John covered his face with his little hands and just cried.

“John. John, what happened? How did…you’re crying. You must cease!” Sherlock looked sternly at John. _The man was a soldier! He had no business being a child and crying!_ “John Hamish Watson, stop weeping this instant!”

John cried louder and he began to hiccup. Sherlock heard footsteps on their stairs and Mrs Hudson burst in, “I heard a child crying. What’s going on! Sherlock, who is that? Don’t just stand there like a dolt, pick him up!”

“It’s John,” said Sherlock, not moving. He was still staring at the child weeping copiously into the sleeve of a now sodden jumper sleeve. “I don’t know what happened. He was a grown-up ten minutes ago!”

John’s little arms reached up and Sherlock found himself automatically bending down and scooping the surprisingly heavy little boy into his arms. John threw his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and slowly stopped crying, “Thorry.” he lisped and flushed, “Thit! I’m fucking listhping again!”

“Don’t swear John! You’re too….young.” Sherlock was trying to control his shock and awe. It really was John. The little armful smelled just like John did, like creamy tea and gun-metal.

“Thut the fuck _up_ , Therlock! Thith ith your fault, ithin’t it!” Tiny John was angry, “Why ith it alwayth me?” Sherlock had no answer for that. John’s little tear-soaked face was enchanting and disturbing at the same time. He was the most precious little boy Sherlock had ever seen! John’s little military haircut was too adorable, his eyes seemed too big for his face and they seemed bluer than Sherlock thought they had been, or perhaps it was because John’s little cheeks were ruddy from crying and he was obviously struggling so hard to keep his childish hold on his emotions.

“John we have to figure out what happened to you so we can fix it.” Sherlock looked into Tiny John’s little face and saw a bottom lip endearingly jutting out. John sniffled and gave Sherlock a slip of paper. It read, “ _To make you small_.” and there were teary smears on it. “Where did you get this John?”

Speaking carefully and enunciating clearly John answered, “I drank a soda from the fridge. It was on the shelf next to the milk, I didn’t read it. It just looked like soda. This was stuck to the bottom.” Tiny John’s bottom lip was quivering and Sherlock’s heart just melted. This was John and he was so afraid and upset, so little and sweet, how could anyone, even Sherlock Holmes, resist? He gave John a hug and John hugged him back, burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder.

“So we don’t know where it came from,” mused Sherlock out loud as he rubbed John’s back in small circles and John shook his head in agreement. “We don’t know how long the effects will last either.”

“Sherlock, you can’t keep a child here! People will talk! Everyone will wonder where John went and who this little boy is! What are you going to do?” Mrs Hudson was right. She looked worried and upset, “Who could have done such a thing?”

Sherlock had no idea who would possess the knowledge to turn a forty-year-old man into a small child with a drink. “We’ll find out Mrs Hudson. My mobile is on the table, call Mycroft.”

Mrs Hudson didn’t argue. She called Mycroft and scolded him until he agreed to rearrange his afternoon and come to Baker Street immediately. Neither Holmes brother had much resistance to Mrs Hudson, a fact that Sherlock was currently exploiting. Sherlock tried to comfort John, “Would you like some tea?” John loved tea.

“Sherlock you can’t give a small child tea! He can have some milk. From my fridge, I should think. I wouldn’t trust anything in yours.” Another excellent point, Mrs Hudson was as invaluable as John in her own mother-henning way.

John was pushing his way out of Sherlock’s arms the instant she left. “I want tea god-dammit!” John looked mutinous and it was so precious Sherlock nearly gave in.

“I’m afraid she’s right, John. The amount of caffeine alone would most certainly be more than a body your size could deal with. You’ve just consumed something that has radically altered you, and the last thing you’ll want to do is over-stimulate yourself.” John did not look convinced.

“I need a drink. Do you have any scotch left?” Now John was being unrealistic.

“Yes, I do. It’s on the very top of the bookshelf. If you can reach it you can have some.” Sherlock looked way, way, way down on the now scowling child near his knees, “John, you’re a small child. You look like you might be seven years old. Would you like to see yourself?”

“Of course I want to see! Don’t be a condescending shit! Bring a chair from the kitchen. I don’t want you holding me up in front of the bathroom mirror.” John’s cheeks were red with embarrassment now. He was touchy about being smaller apparently but he was so cute Sherlock found his frowns to be as delightful as the cheeky smile that broke out when John saw himself, “Oh my god I remember looking like this. Jesus, fuck I’m _young_!”

“Stop swearing, John! Use your words like a big boy.” John shot Sherlock a look that would have been laden with threats of violence if it had been on someone else’s face.

“Stop it, John, you’re in serious danger of having your cheeks pinched.” Sherlock was trying to hold back his grin but he wasn’t having much success, “I’m going to have to call your mum some day and say thank you for a job well done, you’re just the sweetest looking little cherub.”

“I hate you, Sherlock Holmes! Fix this! Fix this now!” John was getting angry now, “This was supposed to be for you wasn’t it! You were the one who was supposed to get turned into a child but instead it got me! Thanks a bloody lot, Sherlock. This is just great.” John was going to burst into tears again and climbed off the chair he was standing on to storm away up to his room. The flat rang with the slam of his door and Sherlock went up after him because John was indeed crying again.

“I’m sorry John; I wasn’t making fun, not really. It’s just…yes this is not a wonderful thing to have happened, and yes it was most likely a trap for me, but you are very cute and I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. Don’t be angry John.” Sherlock instinctively hugged John who was sitting on his bed and John hugged him back. “Come along, John. Mycroft will be here soon.”

John blew his nose and washed his face before returning to the front room where Mrs Hudson was waiting with a tray of milk and biscuits. John sat in his chair, dwarfed by everything around him and had a snack while they waited. Sherlock had already bagged up the discarded bottle and note when his brother arrived, “Mycroft.”

It took Mycroft only a second to take the situation in. He blinked only a single time to demonstrate both his surprise and understanding, “I’ll arrange a small vacation away for the both of you, someplace no one would ever expect to find you.”

Sherlock looked suspiciously at his brother but John looked excited and could not hide it. His little face broke out into a wide grin, “Holiday? Where?”

“Oh, let us make that a big surprise, shall we?” said Mycroft tolerantly and John agreed happily before catching himself and scowling at Mycroft who now hid a small smile of his own. He was looking at John’s frown, “He really is charming.”

“ _I know,_ ” said Sherlock instantly and John’s scowl grew blacker. “That really is not helping John. Mycroft, get a picture of us together, we should document this anyway. John, up we go.”

John allowed himself to be picked up. Sherlock put on a very serious face and said in a very serious voice, “For science, John.” which just made John giggle and Sherlock smile. Mycroft was quick and caught them sniggering together before also catching their more formal poses a minute later. “We’ll need to leave as soon as possible. John will require travel clothes and we’ll need to get a maintainable disguise for me as well.”

“All simply arranged, give me a few hours and I’ll send Anthea to go over the details with you. John, take heart, I will have all my best people put into solving this. Sherlock, your primary concern from now on is taking care of John. No getting sidetracked with cases or experiments. He’s still John inside but he’s trapped in a child’s body. Don’t allow him to be vulnerable.”

Sherlock looked completely offended, “You speak as if John has not always been of paramount importance, be serious Mycroft. I have not shifted my focus simply because he is reduced in size.” John looked very pleased with this declaration and Mycroft smiled smugly. “We must leave as soon as possible Mycroft, the longer we remain the greater the chances of discovery.”

“Agreed, stay here. Mrs Hudson, close the curtains, it doesn’t matter what the neighbours wonder as long as they cannot verify anything. Arranging everything will take a few hours so be patient.”

It wasn’t easy. John’s normally eternal well of patience was considerably shallower as a child and it wasn’t long before he was literally bouncing off the walls, “I’m bored.”

“Read a book.”

“Books are boring, let’s play a game.”

“Games are boring.”

 _“You’re boring!_ I’m bored and if I’m not _unbored_ soon I’m going to go into your room and _ruin your sock index_.” Tiny John looked ready to enact his threat immediately.

“Oh for heaven’s sake! Fine, what do you want to do?”

“Experiment.”

“What experiment?”

“The volcano, I never got to do one in school.”

“Oh god John, no, that’s for children! I’m not making you a volcano and that’s final,” which of course were famous last words because by the time Anthea showed up with their supplies the kitchen table was well and truly covered in the exploded remains of a very enthusiastic table-top volcano. John was jumping up and down, applauding Sherlock loudly, “Amazing, that was amazing!”

“Anthea, arrange for a discrete cleaning service to come see to this, will you? What has my brother arranged?” Sherlock and John were both covered in table-top lava.

Anthea didn’t bat an eye, she just set down the shopping bags she had carried in and sent off a request via her ever-present mobile, “ Mr Holmes has tickets waiting for you at Heathrow, we’ve got a new ID for both of you. Doctor Watson, there are appropriate clothes for you to choose from, just re-bag whatever doesn’t fit. You will be able to acquire new attire at your destination. Anything you need by way of personal effects can also be obtained at your destination.”

Mycroft’s PA handed over two new passports, “That’s fast even for my brother.” said Sherlock. “I suppose it’s easier to fake an ID when you’re the one who verifies their veracity.” Anthea was expressionless. “William Watson? Why does John get to keep his name but mine changes?”

“Your name is highly identifiable whereas there are currently twenty-five different Doctor John H Watsons in London alone, as well as any number of John Watsons of other professions all over England. He will blend in as is. Be grateful, Mycroft almost made you change your hair colour except that maintaining the colouring might be problematical considering where you’re going. Don’t worry Mr Holmes, your disguise will be brilliant.”

“Where are we going?” asked John with excitement.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After John's transformation it is necessary to leave London.

_“Welcome to Hawaii!”_ John was wiggling all over the place and eagerly accepted kisses to the cheek and his flower _lei_. Sherlock was already sweating and looking dangerously in need of a cigarette, glaring away all the hopeful lei-bearers who were just trying to do their jobs, “Don’t ruin this for me,  _William_.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together in a frankly terrifying smile and accepted the next _lei_ to come his way. John held his hand tightly, his little rolling case displaying some kind of super-villain with ridiculously curved golden horns. John had rolled his eyes when Sherlock demanded to know why his luggage was thus adorned. “I’m going to kill you the second we check into the hotel,” he threatened the much smaller man.

“We’re not going to a hotel. You never listen to anyone but _yourself_.” Tiny John was so annoying. He’d wheedled sweet treats out of the service personnel the entire flight and was so wired on sugar now he was ready to explode. “ _Uncle Mike_ said he’d gotten us a private house near some beach whose name I can’t say. I want to look for seashells!”

“John, please. We’ve been flying forever. Can we get to wherever it is we’re going please?” John was wearing on Sherlock’s nerves. He was so tiny, he needed help with practically everything. He also flirted innocently with anyone he came in earshot with when he wasn’t napping. John was incorrigible and there was nothing Sherlock could do to make him mend his ways. Instead, Sherlock endured amused and offended looks in equal quantity the entire long trip to Hawaii. “It’s hot. I need a shower.”

“Fuck showering. We’ll go swim in the ocean, look there’s a shop right there where we can get some swim gear.” John ran off leaving Sherlock to deal with their small amount of personal luggage. Going through customs had been irritating, thankfully John had behaved himself but now that they were in the clear it seemed that all bets were off. He would not stop swearing, becoming if anything worse than when he was a soldier. John was so full of undirected energy, Sherlock struggled to keep up.

John was already at the counter. He’d found a pair of bright red swim shorts that would reach down to his knees and he’d found a pair of trunks for Sherlock too, “Absolutely not,” said Sherlock the second he laid eyes on them. “I shall _never_.”

John’s eyes welled up. His little lip pouted up and his little piping voice wobbled when he said, “But you _promised_.” Sherlock scowled down at the blatant little manipulator who knew full well Sherlock couldn’t do anything dramatic in public lest their cover be jeopardized. “They’re fun.”

The trunks in question were blue and patterned, “Are those birds?” John just shrugged and made Sherlock pay for them as well as a handful of things like sunscreen and burn ointment, “I’m going to burn to a crisp before we get anywhere.”

John added a very unattractive but wide-brimmed hat and threatened to cry again if Sherlock put it back. Sherlock paid in silence, vowing to get back at John the second he was an adult again. They were travelling on Mycroft’s card though so while John was being as childish as he could manage Sherlock didn’t object too greatly to the expenditure itself. He vacillated between being completely annoyed and entirely enchanted with Tiny John.

A car was waiting to drive them to their destination and Sherlock demanded air conditioning. The driver rolled the windows down and Sherlock frowned. John bubbled with laughter and enjoyed the breeze, humming little songs to himself. It wasn’t long before John was shouting questions up to the driver and finding out all about the area they were staying in. The driver was as charmed with John as everyone had been so far and tolerantly answered all his questions. Sherlock looked at John. That was interesting. The driver hadn’t thought twice about giving a complete stranger, though a child, some very advantageous insider information that would allow them to escape the tourist traps and enjoy the island properly. John looked up at Sherlock and gave him a cheeky wink. “Look we’re here.”

It was a small bungalow on a beach, simple but big enough for a parental unit and one small child to live easily and with a fair amount of privacy. The landscape cut off easy access to the property, a small winding dirt road led to the simple building with barely enough room for the taxi to turn around to leave. There was an old van waiting for their use, “This thing looks like it’s been here since the sixties.”

“Oh my god, it’s a real VW van! It’s been restored, look at the windows! I’ve only seen these on telly! We have to go to the beach in this now!” John was trying to open the door with no success; he was too short to reach the handle enough to manage the mechanism.

“John we’re _at_ the beach. It’s right in front of us. I’m hot. I want a drink. I need to cool off. We’re not going for a drive.” Sherlock fumbled with the key and let them into their new home. Mycroft’s people were good at least, the place was sparkling clean and the fridge and pantry were heavily stocked with all kinds of things, “What is _Spam?_ There’s about fifteen cans of the stuff in the cupboard.”

“We’ll try it later. Come on Sherlock, I want to go swimming.” John raced off to put his bag in the room he claimed and swiftly changed into his new swim trunks and beach shoes. Sherlock didn’t want to wear his so he took his time. John stood outside his door, “Quit being a fashion diva and get changed. You know what? I’m going to the beach alone! Who knows what kinds of nice strangers I’ll meet? Lots of lovely vans out there I bet, probably all kinds of people would be willing to take me for a drive.”

Sherlock changed as swiftly as he could to find John leaning against the hallway wall looking impatient, “I thought you were leaving alone.”

“I thought you were a genius. Clearly, we were both wrong. Put on some sun-block, you’re blinding me already and we haven’t even gotten you into the sun yet.” Sherlock loathed the experience because it was so unfair, John was naturally golden and would tan gorgeously.  Sherlock would redden like a lobster in a pot before crumbling under the merciless sun like a dried leaf. The sunblock came in a huge container with some kind of cartoon family on the front. They looked obscenely happy. It was thick and smelled awful. “Get everywhere, I’m not your doctor and if you get burned expect no help from me.”

John at least slathered the goop over Sherlock’s bony back, making a game out of naming off his bones as his hands swept over them until Sherlock snapped, “Yes, I’m thin. Thank you, John, for not making me self-conscious about it!”

“Don’t moan. Here I was showing off all my medically knowledge and you have to make it about you again, diva.” Sherlock almost blushed. John had been showing off and instead of being impressed Sherlock had made an assumption. Tiny John was so different than grown-up John. Grown-up John wouldn’t be rubbing sun-block on Sherlock’s back and finger-painting figures into his skin. John drew something on with daubs of sun-block, “There, now my name will tan onto your back.”

“Why would you do that?”

“For fun.”

 _Fine, whatever._ “Get the beach umbrella and some water; let’s get going before I expire on the spot.”

“Moan, moan, moan, I should call you Myrtle you moan so much, oh wait, you don’t know what I’m talking about because you refused to read the books. Posh git! Let’s go before I get younger or something.” John dragged the large beach umbrella after himself leaving Sherlock to fetch the water as well as towels, something to sit on, the bag of beach toys John spotted, and the bottle of sun-block just in case. Arms fully loaded the detective made his way toward the sand.

John had a marvellous time while Sherlock huddled under the huge umbrella watching anxiously as John raced around chasing the waves or diving into the water exuberantly and generally enjoyed himself immensely. Sherlock was roasting in his own skin and had already drunk his share of the water and was considering the morality of drinking John’s as well.

Sherlock still kept a sharp eye on John which turned out to be fortuitous because John got knocked off his feet by a wave and swept under. Sherlock was racing across the screaming hot sand without a thought, diving into the water and searching desperately until a coughing and choking John was fished out of the water, clinging wide-eyed to Sherlock and trying not to cry again. “It’s alright, John, you were doing amazingly well until then.” If this had happened to grown-up John Sherlock would not have hesitated to tease his friend about being overwhelmed by mother-nature. Somehow it didn’t feel right to tease someone who couldn’t help how very small they were.

Sherlock carried John back to the umbrella and sat him down on the towel where the child huddled, his face red with embarrassment. Clearly, John was mortified about needing rescue, “Congratulations John, not even Mycroft has ever managed to get me into the ocean.”

Sherlock was dripping wet from head to toe and once he was towelled off he needed to reapply his sunblock, “Don’t bother Sherlock. I’m hungry. Let’s go back.” A much subdued John helped gather up their possessions and dragged the umbrella back to their temporary home. Sherlock felt the first real jolt at their new situation when he realized he would be in charge of putting together their meals, that John would require very special levels of nutrition because he was a growing boy, and that bedtimes were now going to be mandatory. _Oh god, Sherlock was a dad!_

John’s little head didn’t even clear the counter so he gamely pulled up a kitchen chair  to stand on so he could ‘help’ Sherlock put together a selection from the fridge, “Slice up some fruit to go with that cheese, and I want some of those sausages, and can we have a bit of that cake for dessert? I’m so hungry, is it ready yet? I’m just going to eat this little bit here.”

John nearly got his finger chopped off because his hand darted down to snag a piece of cheese that Sherlock was in the middle of cutting. “John, do be cautious. How am I going to explain your need to have your finger reattached to the hospital? A grown man living with a small boy who is not his relative won’t go over very well, especially when that child arrives freshly minus a digit!”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, I’m totally fine.” John leaned back cockily but that just tipped the chair over and John nearly went flying except that Sherlock dropped everything in his hands and nearly fell himself catching John. The boy clung to Sherlock in shock. “Sorry,” he said quietly, sounding ashamed again.

“It will take some adjusting John, for both of us. Let’s just try to get through dinner without major trauma.” They managed and John ate an astounding amount for such a small body. Sherlock had to go back to the refrigerator and make a sandwich for him and as soon as John chased it with a tall glass of milk he fell asleep at the table. Sherlock didn’t know what to do. John was still in his bathing suit.

Deciding that John waking chaffed and miserable wasn’t worth a few blushes Sherlock shucked off the boy’s bathing suit while averting his eyes which were squeezed shut as well. Using his hands carefully Sherlock managed to shimmy John’s limp body into his Spiderman pyjamas and tucked into the bed clearly meant for him. The pj’s were a couple of sizes too big but Sherlock was grateful for them anyway. With a surprised yawn, he got himself ready for bed and went to sleep, totally exhausted with recent events.

“Sherlock! Sherlock! _SHERLOCK_!” _John was distressed! John was afraid! John was calling for him!_ Without hesitation, Sherlock rolled out of his unfamiliar bed and made it to John’s dimly lit room. He flicked on the light and stared at John. He was bigger. “Sherlock, I think I’m a year older! I felt it happening!” John’s pyjamas which had been too big when he’d gone to sleep now clung dangerously tight. His arms went up instinctively and just as automatically Sherlock reached down and picked up the much sturdier little boy. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and trembled. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, John; it’s still too soon for Mycroft’s people to get back to us with answers.” Sherlock carried John back to his room and let the not-as-small boy crawl into the warm spot. Mycroft used to do the same for Sherlock when he was a toddler and he recalled that it always comforted him. It worked, “Whatever changed you so abruptly is either wearing off or working as intended.”

“You mean I won’t have to wait years and years to be the right age again?” sniffled John, “What if I get a year older every night until I die an old man? By the time summer is over I’ll be ancient.” John’s blue eyes welled up and his little mouth pressed together as he struggled not to cry yet again, “I don’t want to die Sherlock.”

“You won’t John, I won’t let that happen. I won’t,” promised Sherlock fiercely. Suddenly he was as afraid as John. He couldn’t lose John like this. There had to be a way to fix this. “Try to sleep John, I’ll watch over you.”

Sherlock couldn’t sleep again and texted Mycroft the second John dozed off again, “Nothing Sherlock, the compounds are complex; we can’t even tell what most of the ingredients are yet. We need time.”

“You may not have time. John aged an entire year right after he fell asleep. His body mass and visual characteristics have all shifted.” Mycroft looked very concerned which did nothing to comfort Sherlock. “We may not have long.”

“I’ll bring more people in,” promised Mycroft before ending the call. There was nothing more to say.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have to keep moving if they want to stay hidden.

The next morning the much bigger John ate a large breakfast and seemed to not remember he’d been smaller just the day before. Sherlock said nothing to remind him. They only had the bathing suits he’d purchased the day before but they needed regular clothes so Sherlock suggested an exploratory drive of the region to look for clothes and something to have as a treat. John was all for it.

It was strange for both of them. John had traveled extensively but as an adult, never as a child. Sherlock had also traveled extensively but never with anyone, always alone. Coordinating things like the location of public bathrooms at frequent intervals had not been a challenge once worth considering. John also forced Sherlock to scout the bathrooms first, judging their cleanliness and lack of disturbing individuals and reptiles of any description in the bowl, the last point being a non-negotiable one. “I watch TV, things like that happen. Check!” Sherlock would check.

John was fussy about clothes. He clearly had some strangely defined idea of what looked acceptable and that it wasn’t whatever Sherlock thought was appropriate. Finally Sherlock threw his hands up in despair of getting John into a pair of proper trousers and allowed the boy to choose clothes the locals were wearing along with various other things and suddenly John looked right at home. He made friends with the shop-keeper while he was at it and got both of them invited to a beach-party that evening. “They’re roasting a whole pig Sherlock, a whole pig!” Tiny John’s big blue eyes were filled with delight and Sherlock could not say no. They were expected right after the store closed the shopkeeper’s family already hard at working cooking a mountain of food.

It was horrible for Sherlock but loads of fun for John. Sherlock successfully distracted John from shopping, not many small boys enjoyed extensive shopping trips anyway. After an afternoon swimming at various beaches, some ice-cream, lots of sweet icy drinks that Sherlock rather enjoyed they made their way to the beach party. It was large.

John found their hosts right away and began to eat and chat with people. He was charming, engaging, and because of him Sherlock was chatted up no less than seventeen times by a random assortment of interested men and women including the host’s nineteen year old daughter who was barely wearing her party clothes. John practically climbed into Sherlock’s arms when she tried to press close, “I need some juice.” demanded John who glared at the girl and made Sherlock pack him to the refreshment table for some fruit juice mixes.

John’s plate never seemed to empty and Sherlock barely had a chance to taste a bite of this or that, so busy was he with John’s various demands. Sherlock escorted the tiny tyrant back and forth for more of this or that flavor sensation, to chat with this or that fascinating person, to use the lavatory, to get more refreshments, to get their feet wet in the ocean. By the time the party was winding down John was stuffed tight as a drum and Sherlock was feeling fatigued right down to his bones. He bundled a much rounder John into their van and only missed the turnoff to their rental home twice because it was dark. John was asleep by the time Sherlock parked and as with the night before Sherlock closed his eyes and carefully put John into a set of over-large pajamas.

The next day it was the same, the larger John was still the same bizarre mix of man and child, he wanted to do touristy things, and wear touristy clothes that matched. The evening was spent shoveling huge amounts of food into John, this time Sherlock judiciously telling John to get dressed for bed first. Once more after eating steadily for over an hour John fell asleep at the table surrounded by nothing but crumbs. Sherlock cleaned him up a bit and tucked him into bed. He made some notes about the time, estimated John’s weight, made a note to get a portable scale, and went to get some sleep.

He was unsurprised to be woken by John’s shouts again. John was larger and he looked worried. Sherlock said the words, “We can’t stay here.”

“This island is small; people are going to notice a kid who is a teenager by the end of the week.” John was upset and obviously still very tired. Sherlock nodded before tucking John into his bed before he called Mycroft. “As soon as possible, we might have to keep moving.”

Mycroft understood the way he always did, “I have some contingency plans in place,” of course he did. Mycroft was nothing but contingency plans, “Tickets will be waiting for you at a different airport, I’ll text you details after I’ve made some further arrangements. Get some sleep for now.”

John and Sherlock slept side by side until late in the morning when Sherlock’s mobile rang. “Mycroft.”

“All the arrangements have been made, an itinerary will be arriving momentarily. Funds have been transferred and appropriate documents will be waiting for you in various locations. You’ll need to provide some pictures of John on a daily basis for that. We can get away with a day or so if he changes at the same rate but not for longer.”

“Understood.” the call ended abruptly and an email pinged its arrival. “Come along John, we have a plane to catch.”

Mycroft sent them to mainland USA. “A Winnebago?” John was nearly jumping in the air with delight! “This is so perfect, oh my god this is so perfect!”

John climbed in and began to look everything over while Sherlock followed him in and shouted at his brother on the mobile, “I’m not wandering the highways in a caravan Mycroft! There has to be something better!”

“How Sherlock? I can’t produce passport after passport for the same person on a daily basis! No one will get to know you on the road, John’s condition will remain hidden, both of you will be occupied, and my people will continue to work on a solution! Think about it Sherlock, you know it’s the best way. We’re hiding John in plain sight.”

“The Purloined Letter.” said Sherlock grimly. John was opening cupboards and pulling things out.

“Indeed.” John was now in the driver’s seat and trying to adjust it so his feet reached the pedals. The key was in the ignition already.

“Very well, John is trying to drive. I have to go.” Sherlock ended the call without a word of thanks.

John put up a huge fuss but conceded that they would attract the wrong kinds of attention if allowed to drive and was forced to admit that he didn’t even drive in England because he just never learned how. “I get to pick where we eat.”

“Very well John.” Sherlock felt very out of his element. He missed his Belstaff. He missed the damp streets of London. He missed the dim light, the raucous background noise, the robust stink of the place. Most of all Sherlock missed grown up John because traveling with a child was definitely not the same thing.

The worst stop by far was California where they started. John insisted on spending the entire afternoon at some monstrous theme park that was peopled with cartoon figures. It was dreadfully expensive and everyone was relentlessly cheery. Sherlock was horrified over and over again at what John considered food though the drinks were sweet and therefore acceptable. The lines for rides were tremendous and John nagged until they rode on everything they had the patience to queue up for. John was prodigiously ill twice but still ate more and more food and insisted that one more ride would be completely fine. He was a doctor after all, he knew these things.

After watching John be ill a third time Sherlock picked him up, put him over his shoulder and carried a shouting and cursing John back out to the acres of vehicles parked outside the theme park’s high walls. Sherlock’s hard put-upon expression was met with sympathetic glances from several other parents who now eyed their progeny with resignation. After a great deal of walking around with the constantly struggling and complaining John Sherlock got them both to their temporary home and on their way to a campsite down the road.

The beds were apparently too small and John complained about everything as he ate until he finally fell asleep. Sherlock didn’t even change out of his clothes he just lay there exhausted and slept fitfully, waiting for John to scream him awake.

Three hours later it happened and Sherlock blearily tucked the year-older boy into his still warm bed as had become their custom. Laying on the covers face down Sherlock passed right out and slept till it was late again.

The trip was exhausting. Sherlock had never yearned for sleep and a quiet meal so much in his life. John took up every minute of his day it seemed. How did people do it with more than one? John was fussy about food now, temperamental, sensitive, judgemental, loud, and obnoxiously rude. Sherlock had dark circles under his eyes for the first time and he clutched his travel mug filled with the strongest coffee he could brew. He needed to rest but John was still too young and too reckless to be left unattended, or trusted. He was fast and clever, and had begun trying to run away from Sherlock for fun. Young John was fearless, brave, cunning and wily.

By the time John was physically around fourteen or fifteen and already as tall as he would ever get Sherlock was worn to a ragged nub and John’s old personality had been completely extinguished, leaving behind an angst filled-teen with morose and maundering thoughts. He’d found all sorts of depressing music online and bombarded Sherlock with it while the detective made his extensive daily notes to go with the copious pictures he took. If he was going to suffer he’d at least gather the facts as a reward. Sherlock had to get something out of this. No wonder his parents had packed their children up and sent them to boarding school as soon as they were old enough. Now Sherlock understood.

When he was sixteen John’s libido went out of control and he literally salivated over people he found attractive. Without anyone but Sherlock for company John’s natural bi-sexual tendencies which Sherlock had already secretly suspected flourished in the most grandiose manner. John was a rocket and he wanted everyone. Sherlock recorded the extreme upswing in times when John locked himself away in their small bathroom. When John made it to seventeen he’s begun to expand his list of qualities he found attractive and that’s when Sherlock learned why John had attained the nickname _Three Continents Watson_ whilst in the army. John found everyone attractive! Men, women, big, small, dark, light, hairy, bald, John found something luscious about all of them and nattered on and on to Sherlock about his considerations. Sherlock gritted his jaw, drank another cup of coffee and took his notes.

They had a fairly predictable routine now, if not destinations. Those were always chosen at random, going from one region to the next to chase fairs or other entertainments. They drove throughout the morning, would find a place somewhere in the afternoon and then spend the rest of the day finding food for John and something to do. Apart from theme parks and the like John had also dragged Sherlock to a rock concert, some kind of endless rumble-sale that went on for miles, a smattering of shopping malls because they always needed new clothes, and today they were going to watch some sort of sporting event. Sherlock didn’t know one sport from another and apart from learning to ride a horse and being able to run very fast in his high-end shoes Sherlock wasn’t exactly a physical person.

John was. He was a rowdy spectator, somehow getting involved with the group of blokes seated next to them. In the time it took Sherlock to fetch back all the ridiculously priced snacks and beverages John had requested, the young man had become bedaubed in team colors and was now part of the human sign that made up their row. Sherlock was less than amused when all the other blokes referred to him as _The Grim Reaper_ because of his pale complexion, completely out-of-place suit, and the now permanent dark circles under his eyes. Sherlock stuck out like a skeletal thumb in the crowd of tanned, healthy, and very robust fans. “Leave him be, he’s amazing! This isn’t his thing but I wanted to come so that’s pretty decent of him.” stated John stoutly, glaring at the others who just laughed and went back to the game. Sherlock felt a bit warm inside after that, even if John didn’t say another word to him, spending the rest of the apparently exciting game jumping up and down with everyone else, shouting, and generally behaving abominably. Sherlock apparently existed to hold the food tray and to go get more when it was all consumed. He did.

Mycroft sent reports every day, progress was non-existent. The compounds remained stubbornly unidentifiable and no one could predict the eventual conclusion to the process. Sherlock took more pictures of John and forwarded his official notes as well. There was still nothing Sherlock could do, even if he could find the time. The game was over if the roaring of the crowd was anything to judge by. John’s new friends were trying to talk him into going to a party with them, but minus Sherlock. Sherlock grew tense. John was physically old enough to go wherever he wished. At his age, with his urges, and his drives it was entirely likely that John would run off for a wild night of drinking and lechery, “Can’t. We have to hit the road first thing in the morning, we only stopped for the game.” said John with a smile and just like that his new friends gave him a round of handshakes and John led Sherlock back to their Winnebago.

“I’m surprised John.” said Sherlock eventually after John had washed up and prepared for the night.

John looked at him and his face was bitter for a second, “It would have been a lot of fun but what do I say when at two in the morning or whenever and I’m suddenly a year older? I can’t go out Sherlock, I can’t find anyone to shag, I can’t even have a decent wank in this place because it’s the size of a shoebox and you notice everything! I’m getting older every single day and being a teenager sucks so much I fucking hate it. No matter what we do to distract ourselves I can’t forget that I might die in a few weeks, a miserable old man whose entire life passed him by in the course of a summer.”

“John.” Sherlock didn’t know what to say. John was right. His life was in the balance and there was absolutely nothing Sherlock could do to help him. The detective had never been so powerless. Sherlock felt it deeply and he couldn’t look at John any more than John could look at him. This should have been Sherlock’s trial to endure, not John’s. “John, I’m so sorry.”

“Stop saying that Sherlock. It can’t change anything or fix anything and it’s getting on my nerves.” John went to their fridge and began making himself a stack of sandwiches. They’d decided that growing suddenly older night after night required fuel because John didn’t seem to suffer adversely to being fed so much. Sherlock got up and made a fruit salad to go with it, both men standing shoulder to shoulder as they worked in silence. “Thank you for staying with me through this Sherlock. I know Mycroft would have probably stuck me in a lab somewhere to be watched and weighed. I know I complain a lot but this is better. This is much, much better.”

John dropped what he was doing and caught Sherlock up in a rough hug, silently seeking the comfort he needed and like every other time John needed him Sherlock did not hesitate. He wrapped his long arms around his thankfully full-sized best friend and hugged John as tightly as he could. John wept into his shoulder, “It’s so much every day Sherlock! It is so much. I can feel myself shifting and changing every single fucking minute and it is chaos.

“John I wish it was me. I wish it was me this had happened to. I’m so sorry for that. I’m so sorry for so many things but making you unhappy and miserable is something I cannot bear.”

“I want to go _home_ , back to England.” sobbed John and Sherlock nodded.

“We’ll go back.” They did. Sherlock contacted Mycroft, sent him pictures of John for ID and hoped his best friend wouldn’t change dramatically in the next day while they made their way to the nearest large urban center. The Winnebago was quickly emptied, all their temporary things donated away, and the vehicle left in the parking lot of the airport for one of Mycroft’s many contacts to retrieve. The men both walked with lighter steps, both eager to return someplace familiar.

John went through the change on the flight, hidden under the blanket provided for the all-night trip. He stifled his cries in Sherlock’s coat, Sherlock holding the man tight and he could feel John’s body shifting and growing older, the muscles subtly different, everything about John just a little bit more mature than they’d been only minutes before. John was weeping silently, “It hurts.” he whispered and Sherlock held him tighter until John fell asleep again.

They couldn’t go back to Baker Street. As soon as they landed in England they were picked up and whisked off to a cottage in the countryside. “It won’t be as exciting as traveling the Americas.” stated Sherlock but John just shrugged, seeming content to drink in the familiar landscape.

John was a young man now, rugged and handsome, his body fit and hard. He rippled when he moved and he was effortlessly strong. Sherlock made the mistake of rough-housing with John one day, both men laughing about some inanity that escalated until Sherlock was taken down with a full-body tackle that left him winded, “Oh god! I’m sorry! Sherlock! Are you alright?”

“I’m too old for this.” groaned Sherlock from the floor. John was too energetic, too youthful and alive. Sherlock felt old and gray, washed out and used up. He lay on the floor aching slightly and feeling sorry for himself. The last two weeks had done him in. He was a wraith compared to the exuberance of John.

“You’re three years younger than me.” said John.

“Right now you’re at least fifteen years younger and bloody hell John, no wonder you joined the army. Did they load you into the cannon directly or what?” Sherlock was rubbing his chest where John had head butted him hard.

“Sorry!” laughed John who helped Sherlock stand, “Let’s take a look at that. Did you bruise?” John deftly undid Sherlock’s shirt without another word and quickly examined Sherlock’s narrow chest, “Sherlock have you been eating enough? You’re ribbier than I remember.”

Possibly not. The days had merged together in a haze of food shopping, clothes shopping, entertainment going, John comforting, traveling, and if Sherlock was lucky, three or four hours of sleeping. “I’ll join you for dinner if you promise not to try and eat my hand when I reach for a sandwich.” John flushed and walked to the kitchen.

“I was only ten when I did that, and I didn’t break the skin. I was hungry!” Sherlock smiled and followed his friend toward the fridge. John put together a large selection of things and made Sherlock sit at the table with a portion of it as well as tea, a beverage of which John appreciated more than ever having been denied it for the duration of his brief childhood. Sherlock was groggy after they finished their substantial meal and John was yawning hard, “No point faking that we’re going to do anything except end up sleeping together anyway. Just come to bed with me Sherlock, you need to rest.”

Sherlock was too tired to debate. After days and days and weeks of caring for John the detective’s brain was static with exhaustion, he was whiting out and unable to think clearly. “Very well John.” he said. Sherlock just wanted to sleep.

It was deep and restful. Sherlock’s dreams were bizarre and seemed to be made up of shapeless colors and sounds. His body responded when John shifted, hugging the again older man tight to him, but he for once remained deeply asleep, his body’s needs too great at the moment to do more than react mindlessly. That’s also why Sherlock did not wake when John cautiously placed his hand high on Sherlock’s thigh and filled the night with panting breaths and a very particularly rhythmic sound as John got himself off, using the box of tissues next to the bed to keep himself from making a mess. Sherlock never knew that John burned with both lust and embarrassment after, and had lain on his side for the longest time to watch the detective sleep, his eyes wandering hungrily up and down the tall thin man’s body.


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is rushing through time next to his best friend but as is undoubtedly expected, it isn't smooth.

For the next three nights life at the cottage was tranquil except for the growing tension between the two friends. Sherlock didn’t understand but John had grown awkward around him. Where once John would press close to Sherlock, or reach out for an embrace when he needed it John now shied away and took himself off for solitary walks and finally on the third evening locked himself into his room for the night alone. Sherlock felt strange as he lay down to sleep by himself. He’d gotten used to having John nearby. At first it had been protective, his wee body needing shelter and care, but then Sherlock found he had simply grown used to hearing someone breathe next to him. His room was so quiet and the silence was keeping him awake.

He heard John’s panicked cries at three in the morning but the door was locked and Sherlock had left his lock picks in London. He rattled the knob uselessly, “John! John I can’t get in! John are you alright? John?” Sherlock rapped on the door anxiously, desperate enough to begin considering kicking the door open.

It pulled slowly wide and Sherlock stepped back in shock. John was now in his thirties, a radical jump. “It was worse Sherlock, it was so much worse.” Sherlock took John to the bathroom where they examined his change in appearance grimly. “It’s accelerated. Why?”

“I don’t know John. I don’t think we have a choice now. We have to call my brother again.” John nodded. If something happened beyond the weird aging Sherlock had no way of dealing with it. They needed help. “John. I won’t leave you alone, I won’t.”

“You’d better fucking not! If Mycroft has me socked away in some freakish holding cell somewhere you are damn well going to be right beside me.” John’s eyes were wide with fear and Sherlock’s mind would not stop going over one terrible potential after another. Recent awkwardness forgotten both men embraced each other hard. “Promise me. Swear to me.” begged John.

“I promise John, I swear John, I won’t be parted from you.” Sherlock meant it. This was John and John was everything. Sherlock made the call. Mycroft had people there two hours later, and indeed had both of them taken to a very private clinic where the rooms had brick walls and the door was incredibly sturdy. Sherlock spent fifteen minutes threatening the people behind the counter before he was returned to John’s side when they were temporarily separated during intake.

The day was as awful as they feared. John was indeed weighed, measured, poked, prodded, had fluids extracted, every manner of personal question asked, and all of it happened while Sherlock scowled fearsomely at the doctors and technicians. He hovered protectively over John and John seemed to appreciate it. After a battery of invasive procedures had been endured and evening approached Sherlock became demanding, “We need lots of food, don’t be boring, and a bedroom.” That got some startled looks and Sherlock knew the staff would talk but people really did little else and he could not be brought to care.

They ate dinner and tried to pretend things were fine. There was a telly in the room and a nice sofa to sit on but for some reason it made the men edgy and uncomfortable. They kept the telly off and simply chatted as they ate, unwilling to admit that every move they made was being recorded and discussed by unseen observers. Like nearly every night since he’d first been changed John ate prodigiously right until he fell asleep at the table. Sherlock packed him to bed himself, not allowing any of the interns who showed up to help him even though John was quite weighty. He’d promised to be there for John and he would be.

Sherlock waited until four in the morning before the change happened this time and John woke screaming. Sherlock could see John’s skin literally crawling as it aged right before Sherlock’s eyes, his waist thickening slightly, gray showing up at his temples until John was in his late thirties and nearly caught up with his original age, “John! John? John! Speak. John?”

“That really hurt.” moaned John after several minutes. “God I almost passed out, I could feel everything.” The lights went on and suddenly they were surrounded by a crown of hazmat suited people who swarmed John, taking samples, clipping even his hair and nails, and one soon-to-be-bleeding young man even secured a skin sample by way of a fast slash with a surgical blade.

Sherlock shook his fist out after knocking the intrepid doctor to the floor while a shocked John held a hastily procured soaker pad over the small wound, “He’s not a corpse you ham-fisted cretin! Have a care!”

“Subject A must be studied. You have no right to interfere.” said the young man from the floor, “You have no idea what’s involved. You’re just a civilian. Orderlies, remove this man.”

They did. Sherlock was screaming and fighting back but there were too many of them. He could hear John’s frantic shouts and Sherlock fought even harder when those shouts stopped abruptly. He almost broke free when he felt the sting of a needle in his upper arm. The world went black. John’s name was the last thing on the rapidly fading detective’s lips.

He woke up late that evening beside John who was eating a large dinner. The doctor looked angry and spoke with a full mouth, “Mycroft showed up about an hour ago. He nearly fired everyone here. I was already loaded up and ready to be shipped someplace ‘ _more suitable’_ , apparently my condition isn’t as big a secret as we’d hoped. The little fucker you knocked over was a plant as were about a quarter of the staff. Mycroft’s got this place loaded down with his own people this time, all hand-picked by Anthea. I don’t know who she really is but when she showed up people were almost shitting their pants. When they found you…Mycroft went spare, he went absolutely spare. I’ve never seen your brother lose it before.”

“It’s the sedatives, opiates. You know about my problems.” this would set Sherlock back a bit as his body’s old cravings reactivated but it was a small price to pay and nothing Sherlock felt like worrying about now.

“I think it was more because you’d been attacked and rendered unconscious, stuck into a straight-jacket and lashed to a bed.” said John who’s jaw was so tense he almost couldn’t chew. “We were fucking safer in the Winnebago.”

“John.” Sherlock didn’t know what to say. They were safe. They were still together. Mycroft had come in time.

“I don’t want to talk about that right now. I want to talk about tonight. If the changes go the same as they have the last two nights I should be all caught up. Do you think this is the last night?” Sherlock couldn’t say. He couldn’t say anything at all because for the first time in his existence he had no information to work with. Instead Sherlock sat himself up blearily, accepted the cold drink John offered him and joined the man for dinner. They ate in silence.

John got sleepier and sleepier until he was nearly out. Sherlock helped him to the bed and John’s hand locked around Sherlock’s wrist, “Don’t leave me.”

“I will never leave John, never by my own choice.” swore Sherlock again. John let go and fell asleep heavily, his body now lax. Sherlock arranged him comfortable, left the bed long enough to put their dinner remains in the hallway before changing into pajamas and crawling in beside John. Sherlock wrapped his arms and legs around his best friend and even in his sleep John tangled his fingers into Sherlock’s bedclothes and hung on tight.

It was only midnight when it happened again. John woke screaming and his whole body twisted and jerked. Sherlock woke alarmed, stroking his hand desperately over John in a frantic attempt to comfort him. Lights flooded the room as people in lab coats poured in. There in front of Sherlock’s horrified eyes John shimmered. His hair grayed heavily, wrinkles formed on his skin and suddenly John was old! “Sherlock.” he croaked. “It hurts so fucking much.”

John passed out almost immediately. Sherlock allowed the medical team to take their measurements and samples before shooing them away to allow John to sleep undisturbed. Sherlock was in a state of extreme concern. John looked like he’d increase in age nearly twenty years! He was clearly not a middle-aged man anymore though his body was still strong. He was undeniably softer than he had been before he’d been affected, his hair thick and shining but the gold that was left was hidden among the silver that replaced it. John’s hands had grown gnarled, the knuckles of his hands thick and heavy the way an old man’s hands became with use and time, the nails yellower and more like armor plating than fingernails. Sherlock felt his eyes well and real concern gnawed at him. He was losing John and he’d done nothing to help his friend.

It was late in the morning before John woke. “Sherlock, Jesus fuck, look at me!” John’s voice was filled with the same horror that Sherlock felt. “Oh my god…it’s getting worse.”

“John.” Sherlock wanted to say so much but for the first time ever words failed him. “John.” he repeated and hoped John would understand everything.

“Is breakfast here? I could eat an entire pig.” John was trying humor to smooth the way. There was nothing they could do to stop this and these could be their last hours together.

“You certainly tried in Hawaii.” reminded Sherlock with his best attempt at a lighthearted smile. His heart was cracking all over; he could feel the blood welling up in his veins in protest to his continuation if John was not going to be there to continue with him. Food was indeed waiting and with good appetite John tucked in, making Sherlock nibble down a piece of dry toast with his tea while John demolished everything else.

The medical team came in as soon as John finished his meal. They let the doctor use the facilities, showering and shaving quickly before they went over him again. John snacked the entire time and Sherlock became concerned when John suddenly began to look drowsy early in the afternoon. He had been eating since he woke. “John?”

“Sherlock, think I need to lay down again. Can hardly keep my eyes open.” slurred John, swaying in his chair. Sherlock darted over and caught his friend in his arms as John fell hard asleep.

“John! _Oh god no, John_!” Sherlock was terrified. Whatever was happening had clearly accelerated. Once again the room was filled with lab techs, no one able to offer a single helpful comment or provide a bit of information about what was happening. Nothing was strange about John’s bloodwork, nothing could explain what was happening to him or how.

Sherlock promised and he would keep that promise. He left John’s side for no reason, even using the en suite facilities with the door open so he could keep an eye on the man as he slept. The rest of the time Sherlock lay pressed tight against John, holding his fragile body closely and nearly wept when John began to moan painfully. “No…it hurts…Sherlock!”

“John, I’m here. _I’m here_ John, please. I’m here.” what else could Sherlock do? He couldn’t take the pain away, he couldn’t endure the aging for John, he couldn’t do anything! He was useless! Tears spilled without Sherlock noticing. The lights in the room were dim but they were more than enough for Sherlock to still make out John’s face grow gray and sunken, the wrinkles plentiful and deep. His hair lost all traces of color and grew thin but still covered his head evenly. John’s body seemed smaller, he’d lost his muscle mass but gained no extra body weight. It was as if he’d melted away and left behind this small almost desiccated individual with thin trembling arms and a rheumy gaze, “John.”

John’s voice was weak and pale, “Sherlock. Won’t be long. Can feel it. Burning up. _I’m burning_.”

“John, what can I do? What shall I do? John?” Sherlock’s tears would not stop. He didn’t even notice that Mycroft had arrived and was holding back the medical team. They couldn’t do anything either and John was right, there was no time left anymore.

“ _Listen_. You’re my best friend. More than that. I’ve always cared about you Sherlock. You’re amazing, I didn’t say it enough, _you are amazing_. Being your friend has been the very best thing I’ve ever done with my life. I’m glad it’s me and not you Sherlock. The world deserves to have you in it. Lots of people can be John Watson but only you can be Sherlock Holmes. I love you Sherlock, I’m so sorry I waited till now to tell you. There’s so much I wanted to do with you.”

Sherlock cried for a minute before he pulled himself together, “John. _My sweet soldier_. What would you have done? Tell me.”

“Made memories with you. Told you I loved you all the time. Taken you places you wanted to see. Watched you. I wanted to watch you forever; you’re fantastic, so brilliant sometimes you blinded me with it. I wanted to do everything we could think of Sherlock, I wanted you to be with me until the end of our days. I didn’t know our days would be so few. I’m sorry for that. All I’ve ever wanted to do was love you, any way you’d let me.”

“I wanted that too John, my John. Please. Please don’t let this be goodbye.” Sherlock could barely see John for the tears. John’s hand covered Sherlock’s, his grip weak but sure, “I love you John. I should have said as well. You are my greatest friend, the rock upon which my stability depends, I am a better man because of the example you have set and I count it my greatest achievement to have gained your companionship.”

“Sherlock!” John was in distress, his small body arcing off the bed in agony; his hand gripping Sherlock’s as tight as he could manage, “ _Sherlock_!”

“John? Oh god no! John, no!” entirely helpless Sherlock watched as John seemed to shimmer again, his entire body growing brighter and brighter until the detective could only see a faint outline, “John, please. _Don’t go without me_. Don’t leave me behind. I’m not strong like you, I couldn’t bear it.” If anything the light grew brighter, hotter. Now Sherlock felt as if he were burning too, as if dry hot winds were taking every bit of moisture out of him and leaving him brittle and fragile. The light grew brighter until Sherlock could feel nothing but John’s hand on his as the world burned away.


	5. Fin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's okay to cry.

The first thing Sherlock heard was his brother’s voice. How annoying, “Sherlock! Sherlock can you open your eyes? Sherlock! _Sherlock Holmes wake-up this instant_!”

“Shut up Mycroft I’m trying to sleep! Can’t you find some cake somewhere and just be quiet.” Sherlock felt weary and miserable but not quite able to remember why. When he heard a warm chuckle behind him his eyes flew open and he turned so fast he nearly did himself an injury. “John!”

“Sherlock!” John was instantly in his arms squeezing him so tight Sherlock almost didn’t have the oxygen he needed to croak John’s name out over and over again. John was alive and he looked his proper age! Sherlock’s arms went around him of their own volition and Sherlock had to hide his face in John’s neck to keep his brother from seeing him weep with almost overwhelming relief and joy. “Sherlock, I’m alright, I’m okay now. Whatever it was it’s over now.”

“Are you sure? Are we sure?” Sherlock couldn’t help how thick and raspy his voice was. He was overwhelmed right then, as if all his little recognized emotions were running rampant through him. John was alive and he was alright! Sherlock was so thankful, so very thankful. He wished he believed in a higher being of some kind so he could praise them for returning John Watson to him. He did it anyway, just in case.

“I guess so, I feel pretty much the same way I did the day I drank that damned drink, tired because we’d just gotten home, hungry, and just normal.” Sherlock noticed that there were a lot of people in the room with them, many of them with pink cheeks at the blatant affection being demonstrated by the two men in the hospital bed. Sherlock decided he didn’t care and hugged John close to him, debating about pulling John right into his lap for a big long squeeze. “They have to take samples Sherlock. You know you want them to as well.”

Dammit Sherlock did! He wasn’t going to just let this go! Reluctantly he let John go but was pleasantly surprised when John just turned around and sat himself between Sherlock’s thighs, extending his arm so blood could be collected and allowed the other doctors and nurses do what they needed to do while he leaned up against Sherlock who very willingly pretended to be furniture for John. When everything that could be collected had been collected Mycroft got them to stand against a bare wall and snapped a last photo of them side by side. Mycroft looked at John and Sherlock and simply said, “A car is waiting to bring you back to Baker Street.”

For the first time in weeks they went home. Sherlock felt unaccountably shy with John considering they’d spent every minute together for all this time. John seemed to find it difficult to speak as well and after milling about their flat for several minutes he finally just said, “Tea?”

“Yes please.”

John made tea and it was the most awkward cup they’d ever shared. Sherlock didn’t know how to broach anything. He and John had said some very important things to one another but for some reason it was almost impossible to deal with. Finally Sherlock just stood, “Well, I’m going to get some sleep.”

It was the lamest excuse in the history of lame excuses because both of them knew Sherlock wasn’t tired just like both of them knew Sherlock was running to hide. John let him go and Sherlock cursed his own cowardice as he washed his face and brushed his teeth. By the time he was done John was waiting his turn in the hallway and as they passed one another the air between them suddenly crackled with heat. Sherlock’s eyes went to John’s and the doctor held his gaze steadily but kept moving until he was in the bathroom and at the sink. Sherlock realized he’d craned his head around a considerable amount to keep his gaze on John. With a blush he broke their stare and fled to his room.

He had no idea why he was so nervous. This was John for goodness sake! John with whom Sherlock had spent entire weeks solely with! John with whom Sherlock had been best friends with for years, even when he was dead John’s affection for him had not waned! Sherlock thought of everything that happened and how very close he’d come to losing it all, “John?” Sherlock rushed from his room and nearly knocked the soldier over when he raced out of the bathroom, his unused toothbrush still in his hand. Sherlock pulled him into his arms and kissed John with everything in him. Lips pressed tight together Sherlock wordlessly showing John how very loved he was, and how grateful Sherlock was that they were still together, “John, my John, my beautiful, warm, wonderful John.” John _was_ warm and beautiful and brave and clever and not boring and surprising and funny and patient and so wonderful to be with. Sherlock felt himself become overwhelmed once again; he’d almost lost so much! “John.”

“I know, I know love I know. Shh, it’s okay now, it’s okay, we’re okay now.” John soothed Sherlock, rubbing his arms and the back of his neck as he let Sherlock just breathe him in and hold John. “Just stay close. I need you close.”

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to cleave himself to John’s side forever! He took the toothbrush from John’s unresisting hands and tossed it into the sink before pulling John into his bedroom and onto the bed, John pulling the covers aside so he could nestle them underneath. Their arms and legs slotted together, their hands wandering aimlessly over each other as they kissed endlessly, murmuring words of love back and forth until hours later they fell asleep in each other’s arms, their devotions still on their lips.

John knew Sherlock had little or no real experience with love and the soldier seemed almost languorous in his lessons to the detective. Kissing featured largely in John’s drawn out seduction, but touching as well. Sherlock was touch-starved having spent nearly his entire existence avoiding absolutely everyone so when John caressed him with deliberate intent the first time Sherlock became instantly and irrevocably addicted to cuddling.

John’s hands were magic and they spent ages nestled up together leaning against walls or tucked into the sofa, mouths kissing lips or skin or hair while John’s careful hands petted Sherlock’s back, or tangled in his hair to lightly scratch his scalp, or trail down to follow his spine to his hip and down his long long legs which Sherlock would obligingly pull up for John to reach. It was lovely and both of them enjoyed it all immensely.

They told everyone they’d just been on vacation and produced a very honest photo album made up of several shots of tourist sights which John-the-child had forced Sherlock to take. Most of them were of the sights alone, a few with a less than happy looking Sherlock standing in them to verify that yes, this holiday had happened. When asked why John wasn’t in any of them he just shrugged and said that wasn’t the point of the vacation and left it at that.

Sherlock discovered that John was a very romantic man and was further surprised at how much he enjoyed being romanced. Try as he might to maintain his icy persona while on crime scenes it was difficult to not blush when John opened taxi doors, and ushered him around, and held his hand. Yes. John Watson held Sherlock Holmes’ hand in public and Sherlock liked it. It never failed to produce that warm buzzy feeling in his midsection when John’s firm sure grip tangled with his and John would just walk beside Sherlock and talk with him about the case, or the weather, or about how well Sherlock had done not punching Donovan because you really shouldn’t attempt to assault officers no matter what names they called you. Sherlock was happy that John was there and he was just happy.

John had meant what he said when he thought he was dying. He wanted to watch Sherlock be himself, he really loved it. Sherlock was amazed and humbled that somehow the universe had created this singular man who thought _he_ whom everyone had easily believed to be sociopathic was so incredible that nothing Sherlock did was anything but amazing. That’s not to say John stopped complaining about finding a bucket of stomachs in the fridge instead of dinner, or when Sherlock forgot to put his toxic fruit samples away and they had a fruit-fly invasion which Sherlock took care of by harvesting the wee beasties for a different experiment entirely so John was mollified.

Now that John knew that Sherlock liked being watched as much as John wanted to watch work in the kitchen lab was different. Now when Sherlock was lost in his experiments John would take his tea right there and just observe Sherlock working, never interfering but instead filling his eyes with his sweetheart’s numerous thoughtful expressions and mutterings. “It’s like a dance and only you know the steps. It’s bloody incredible watching you figure things out.” exclaimed John when Sherlock finally stopped working and realized he’d been at it for nearly ten hours. He hadn’t spoken to John all day but John didn’t seem to mind, “Love it’s what you’ve always done, I don’t want you to stop being yourself just because we’re together now. Why would I want that? Besides, now that you _are_ done, I know it’s alright if I do this.” John kissed Sherlock’s mouth lightly, “I never got to do that before so that’s nice isn’t it?” John stepped close and kissed Sherlock’s long neck, “I’ve wanted to do that so many times and now I can, that’s worth the wait right there.” one bit of affection at a time John soothed Sherlock’s fears away and taught him that demonstrating love wasn’t hard, or impossible to learn about. John was a very good teacher.

“You’re so patient with me.” sighed Sherlock after they’d kissed for forever. Their foreheads were pressed together and John was almost humming under his breath. Sherlock was sitting sideways, his legs over John’s lap as they snuggled on the sofa, their heads just the right height for kissing.

“I suppose you expected me to bend you right over and divest you of your innocence the second I had a chance?” John nipped Sherlock’s bottom lip and Sherlock flushed scarlet, “See? Why would I rush you Sherlock? Trust me to know when to go further.” John really was remarkable. Sherlock had spent his whole life wondering why people were in a fuss about sex. He very rarely masturbated, and only because his transport demanded the release. The orgasms he’d experienced weren’t intense as far as he could tell, certainly not enough to encourage him to seek a bed-mate. His libido was essentially on hold and John seemed to know that. Sherlock nodded and John smiled, continuing his telling Sherlock all the little things he found beautiful about him. Sherlock’s blushes were many.

For a week or so their life continued in this manner with John playing courtier and Sherlock the bashful maiden. The detective received love tokens by way of a bouquet of flowers (poisonous and now pressed between the pages of a book), a pair of pants with bees on them which Sherlock secretly found enjoyable to wear, and the most amazing present ever was the introduction between Sherlock and the very new awe-struck pathologist at Bart’s who worked opposite Molly. He read John’s blog and thought Sherlock’s detective work was the most exciting thing to have ever happened and instantly offered Sherlock free access to the morgue whenever he was at work. Sherlock nearly kissed both of them on the spot but settled for snogging John happily.

To romance his soldier in return Sherlock carefully thought of all the little things John found comfort in and made sure he had those things in excess. John liked to take long soaks in the tub so all their old ratty towels vanished and luxurious sets of towels in a variety of colors arrived to take their place along with bath salts in John’s preferred scents, and because John’s sense of humor was as warped as Sherlock’s, a new bathmat that made bloody footprints after wet feet trod on it. John found it hilarious and got another one for in front of the shower.

They slept together so Sherlock invested in the most decadent sheets he could locate, using the same supplier Mycroft favored. Sherlock’s brother was a sensualist and always indulged in the very best to treat himself. Sherlock felt it wasn’t the worst example his brother could provide and followed his lead for John’s sake. When John was at work, no matter the time or how little Sherlock might have slept the detective would always go someplace new, obtain a hot lunch made right in front of him, and bring it to his doctor so he’d have something safe to eat while he was at work. Their paranoia about food and beverages was shared and never taken for granted. Both men routinely examined their foodstuffs for tampering or suspicious notes. When Sherlock installed a spycam in the fridge John had simply nodded and told him it was a good idea.

The dam on their slow burn to desire broke the night Sherlock was shot by a suspect they hadn’t suspected until she pulled out a gun. Sherlock was more upset about missing the obvious clue of her wearing the late victim’s ex-boyfriend’s school ring and chastised himself the entire time a pale-faced John stood beside him as the paramedics put a pressure bandage on the small hole in his arm and rushed him to the hospital. It ached a bit and getting stitches actually hurt worse than getting shot in the arm but John didn’t see it that way.

When they at long last returned to 221 B John pushed Sherlock hard up against a wall and kissed him. The soldier pulled Sherlock’s legs up one at a time until he was holding the detective up, his small strong body rocking into Sherlock’s as he simply devoured the larger man. Sherlock felt his body react to John with slow bone melting heat, each touch of John’s body as he bumped slowly into Sherlock, their mouths fused together, each grind of John’s warm body made Sherlock’s tingle and begin to burn with a fire of his own. “John.” breathed Sherlock as their kiss finally ended. It was a question and permission in a single perfect syllable. John walked Sherlock over to the sofa and sat them in the center so Sherlock’s knees were spread wide as he knelt over the smaller man.

Sherlock sat back and removed his damaged shirt with only a little trouble before tugging away John’s jumper and unbuttoning his still well tucked shirt. Leaning forward Sherlock dragged his tongue over the newly exposed flesh, needing to do more than see while he rid John of all the aggravating fabric that kept their skins separate. After years of lying dormant suddenly every sexual urge Sherlock had not yet experienced roared into life as he took in the taste and scent of John. “Oh fucking god yes!” groaned John and Sherlock realized he’d latched onto one of John’s nipples and was nearly biting it. John’s hands were clutching the sofa cushions as if his life depending on never letting go.  Sherlock pressed his teeth a little more and another groan followed the first. “More nakedness now!” he ordered, standing himself up.

John popped right off the sofa and in a flurry both men shed their clothes as rapidly as they could. Sherlock pushed John right back onto the sofa as soon as they were stripped and climbed back into his lap until they were tight together. Sherlock kissed John’s neck and felt him shiver beneath him, John’s hands once again gripping the cushions for dear life. Sherlock trailed his fingers down John’s arms as he sucked gently on the flesh below John’s jaw. Wrapping his hands around John’s wrists Sherlock pulled the doctor’s hands away from the sofa and onto his behind. John gripped firmly and groaned again, “Bloody hell.” he swore and began to seriously explore the lush expanse.

The feel of John’s hard warm hands kneading and spreading him wide made Sherlock’s back arch and his head fall back. John immediately fell to pressing kisses against Sherlock’s chest, flicking his own clever tongue over Sherlock’s nipple to make Sherlock cry out and arch again. “John!”

“Fuck you’re getting hard for me!” rude earthy John! Sherlock’s cheeks flushed because John was entirely correct. Sherlock was rapidly filling out and growing longer. John thrust his hips up and for a moment Sherlock felt John pressed neatly against him, poised just for a second as if to push inward, their breathes both caught with surprise at the unexpectedness of it before John pulled back, thrust up again and slid instead against Sherlock’s rising tumescence. Sparks of pleasure crackled Sherlock’s nerve endings and he gasped. That brief contact had such intensity, “Just look at you, bloody fuck are you gorgeous! I am going to _wreck_ you!” the soldier promised hotly.

Sherlock could only manage one word. His heart was beating too fast, his breath was too ragged, his body was being overwhelmed with impulses he could barely define, “Bedroom.” John nodded eagerly and pushed them both up and off the couch, Sherlock’s legs automatically clinging to the doctor’s waist as he walked them away. “So strong.” muttered Sherlock and wondered at why this made him feel heady. John seemed so small sometimes but right now he was almost more than Sherlock could deal with.

The cool sheets of the bed greeted Sherlock’s back as they tumbled together on it, his legs going high and wide to accommodate John between them, “Beautiful, look how beautiful you are, my brilliant man, my amazing Sherlock.” John’s promise to wreck Sherlock was a serious one. John undertook to kiss, lick, bite, suck, or nibble each and every part of Sherlock one section at a time until the taller man was keening with need, willingly on his belly, knees spread and begging for John to continue.

It was when John’s hands spread Sherlock wide and he felt John’s hot damp tongue sweep up his cleft that Sherlock felt himself detach from all rational thought. Now there were only sensory impressions of _hotwet_ of _probedeep_ of _lickharder_ of _moreJohnmoreJohnmore_! John gave him more. Sherlock’s body learned the rhythm and beat of John’s dance, both men rocking together as Sherlock grew pliant, drawing John in until lips and tongue were no longer enough and one at a time John’s clever fingers found their way inside. “I put lube in the drawer.” whispered John at long last and Sherlock’s arm flailed mindlessly to fetch it. John nipped Sherlock’s behind playfully before he extracted his very wet spit slicked fingers and got it himself.

Sherlock couldn’t help it. He pushed himself up on the heels of his hands, sore arm be damned, to look over his shoulder at John. John was smoothing lube onto his cock, trickling some of the cold liquid directly onto Sherlock’s heated behind. Sherlock gasped but enjoyed the shock of cool that rapidly heated. John’s fingers returned, swirling and pressing inward, generously distributing the lubricant inside and out, “You ready love?”

“Please John. Please.” Sherlock couldn’t hold himself up anymore and crashed downward as John lined himself up, kneeing Sherlock’s knees wider to lower his hips a bit more. The head of John’s cock was so warm, it pressed right up against Sherlock. “Please.” he begged again. John did not disappoint.

It was strange being penetrated for the first time. Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated on accepting John’s width, experiencing that almost shockingly intense stretch as John pushed him wide open. It was frightening and exquisite, Sherlock was gasping out little sounds of amazement as John slowly worked his way inside. John was gripping Sherlock’s hips tightly and muttering softly, “So good. Never been this good. Oh god, trying to go slow. _So fucking good_!” John sounded almost agonized but controlled himself, clearly resisting the urge to drive deep from the way his hips kept involuntarily pumping forward. John caught himself over and over again, stilling himself as he pushed forward one throbbing inch at a time. “You okay? It’s okay?” he asked, sounding a bit desperate.

John was now flush against Sherlock, nearly laying on the detective’s back and pulling in huge drags of air. The soldier was battling himself, trying to resist the same urges Sherlock was coming to terms with. The detective felt so amazing, so unlike anything he’d ever felt like before. He could clearly feel John deep within him and it wasn’t the loveliest feeling he’d ever experienced but the connectivity between the two of them was worth any amount of discomfort. As well prepared as John had been able to make him a cock wasn’t the same as fingers and John’s hands clearly did not reflect the size of the organ now fitted tight inside his body. “I think I need you out for a moment.” The stretch felt too much, the discomfort more than a little, Sherlock felt a moment of panic.

John obliged gently but when he removed himself completely Sherlock felt his absence acutely and waited only a few moments before cautiously pushing back, impaling himself at his own pace while John whimpered a bit but held himself rigidly still. It was better this time, the stretch still there but the initial discomfort largely gone. It wasn’t pleasurable as yet but Sherlock knew to trust John to do whatever it was that needed doing. His faith was quickly rewarded, “Let me try this.” John shifted the angle of his hips after pulling back so when he pushed in Sherlock felt a faint tremble of something delightful deep inside. He moaned softly. John pulled back again and shifted just a bit more, driving in with greater confidence and this time Sherlock’s moan was not soft. That was insanely good! He’d never felt anything like it, like every good sensation in his body was now hotwired together and John had found the on switch. “Oh yeah, that’s got it.” said John almost smugly.

John had Sherlock’s measure then and began to do exactly as promised; he utterly destroyed Sherlock’s sensibilities. The doctor was talented, knowledgeable, confident, and delicate. He plundered Sherlock’s untouched eroticism and taught him the true meaning of desire, of lust, of mindless want, of animalistic pleas for more. The soldier kept himself going slow for the longest time, teasing and tormenting Sherlock with long dragging strokes and deep pressing thrusts until Sherlock’s body joined his mouth in begging. Sherlock buried his face in the bedding. He couldn’t look around, sight was one sense too many at the moment. The feel of John riding him so skillfully overwhelmed him, the scent of John in full rut was intoxicating, the sound of John’s panting breaths and growling moans was enough to turn the normally cerebral detective into an almost primal state.

“Oh Sherlock, oh god, can’t…stop. Oh my _fuck_!” Suddenly John reached down around Sherlock’s hip and took his aching cock in hand. Sherlock shouted. A sensory overload was already imminent. When John stroked him deftly, still driving hard and fast into him Sherlock couldn’t help it and shouted a second time before literally thrashing beneath John, arms and legs useless as an orgasm such as he’d never experienced lost Sherlock control of his own body entirely. John had Sherlock’s hips pinned firmly beneath his hands now, his palm slick with Sherlock’s come as the doctor rode hard and fast. A single harsh gasp heralded his orgasm and Sherlock could clearly feel John’s cock swell and jet spurts of come deep inside his flesh.

John collapsed onto Sherlock’s back, both men sweaty and almost too hot. John was struggling to breath and pawed at Sherlock until he managed to lift himself up to kneel on his heel, still carefully buried inside Sherlock. John groaned a few more times before he was able to extract his softening cock with extreme gentleness. John flopped onto the bed, also face down and both of them just lay there for ages until they cooled off and were able to breathe without struggle. “So that was sex.”

“Pretty much.” said a very sated sounding John, “There’s lots of other bits, plenty left to show you.” Sherlock smiled to himself. His mind was awash with remnants of pleasure he had not anticipated. He’d known that sex was theoretically extremely pleasurable but without any practical knowledge he’d had no clue whatsoever what he’d been missing. There was really only one important question at the moment, “How long before we can do it again?”

John laughed weakly before rolling himself around to slump against Sherlock who gathered the tired man up close. John smelled delectable, he smelled of himself which was delicious enough but now he smelled of sweat, the musky perfume of sex, and of Sherlock himself. It was dizzyingly arousing. “It’ll be a day or so before you can take another round like that love, sorry.” That was disappointing. Sherlock was sure if he concentrated he could recover faster than that! John stroked his hand over Sherlock’s sore arm delicately. It barely hurt; the bandage a bit raspy but otherwise the flesh-wound didn’t trouble Sherlock at the moment. That reminder seemed to spur John, “You need a day or so but I don’t.”

“I might actually need a few minutes.” confessed Sherlock who was now realizing he was as tired as John sounded. He closed his eyes for a second as John laid his head on Sherlock’s chest, “Let’s catch our breaths first.”

“Okay,” said John. A few minutes later he said, “Just resting my eyes.” he needn’t have said a word. Sherlock was out cold, fast asleep with a little smile on his lips that John didn’t see because the soldier was already dreaming deeply.

They never discovered where the mysterious drink came from nor were they troubled by it again but as the years passed them by Sherlock and John never forgot how close they came to never being at all. They made a habit of appreciating one another, making sure they didn’t fall into ruts or in any way endanger the bond they felt with one another. Once a year they’d leave on a rambling vacation somewhere, wandering wherever their impulses took them, relishing the experiences they shared together, both good and bad.

The day Sherlock proposed to John was the same day they’d met so long ago at the morgue and were able to leave their respective bleakness behind and the day they got married was the same day John nearly died and their lives started all over again. The day their surrogates announced their successful simultaneous pregnancies was marked and celebrated along with all their other significant dates and when their children were born, a daughter for John and a son for Sherlock, both men knew they’d be great parents because John had raised Sherlock and Sherlock had raised John and both of them had turned out alright.

Years later when all the cases they cared to solve had been solved and the allure of Sussex and bees was more tempting than running through the streets of London Sherlock and John’s children and many grandchildren helped unload everything from 221 B and moved them in one huge tumultuous day. The elderly gentlemen were fussed over by their progeny, teased about framed photos of them climbing mountains or cycling the countryside, or sitting in the back of an ambulance, or being caught shouting at someone from the Yard. Young William came up and sat between his grandfathers, “I want to write a book about your lives. People hardly believe you’re real, did you know that? Would you mind?”

John and Sherlock looked at one another. Their new home was filled with all sorts of things, crowded with small items that reminded them of big things. The bottle the drink had come in figured among their most important treasures and always sat on the mantle with Sherlock’s skull, “ Are you sure William, it might end up being a big book.”

“That’s alright Gramps, it should be a big book, nobody’s had a more interesting life than you and Grand Pere.” It took a long time but William loved to visit and John loved to talk, even if Sherlock interjected corrections constantly, and eventually a rather large tome was prepared for publishing. They never saw it completed. William came back from the printing house one day to show his grandparents the book of their lives and found them side by side in bed, hands clasped tight, both faces peaceful and still. William wept for a moment before being filled with thanks that their lives had ended exactly as they had hoped, together as they always promised they would be. Sherlock and John were cremated according to their wishes and scattered among a flowerbed for the bees to harvest.

Great-uncle Mycroft came to William one day, the cold and forbidding expression he’d perfected in government now terrifying. He had something for William, a photo album and a story. While William recorded the entire tale Mycroft flipped through the album filled with pictures of John as a child, Sherlock’s arms tight around him in nearly every shot as John grew older and older, concluding with a picture he’d taken on their wedding day, “The day they met my boy, that was a day history should never forget. There was never a partnership as magnificent as the one between my little brother and his soldier.”

“How was this even possible?” marveled William.

He looked so much like a young Sherlock that Mycroft found it difficult to speak for a moment. “We never found out William though your grandfather and I never stopped looking and you know how persistent we can be. It happened though, very certainly it happened. Do with it what you will; I wanted someone in the family to know the entire story.” Mycroft had married Gregory Lestrade and the two oldsters still lived in London, both refusing to admit that the years troubled them at all. William felt grateful all over again that he hadn’t lost the last connection to his grandparent's past.

William kept the story to himself though he ended up writing a great many books about his family. The notes he’d developed with Grampa John were only partially used and over the years of his life William dedicated himself to sharing their adventures with the world, and the amazing love between Doctor John Watson and the world’s only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

 


End file.
